


The curtain falls

by metalkiralylany



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character Study, Flashbacks, I can't believe I wrote a fic about Viktor's hair, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Slice of Life, Young Victor Nikiforov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:51:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9652733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metalkiralylany/pseuds/metalkiralylany
Summary: “Viktor, why did you cut your hair?” Yuuri asks one day.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'd and it's 3 AM and I have so many regrets so forgive me for any spelling/grammar mistakes, writing in a second language is hard.

It’s a lazy afternoon. Between the Four Continents and the Worlds they decided to take a weekend off to unwind and collect themselves a bit, before diving into training headfirst once again. While the hype and adrenalin after skating their personal bests and standing on the podium side by side would have pushed them forward without a moment of rest, they had the experience not to give in to that urge, and instead stop for a minute to at least get a good night’s sleep. Continuing endlessly without a break would result in burning themselves out before the season ends, and with this probably being one of the – if not _the_ – last season of their careers, they wanted to make the most of it.

So now they are lounging in Viktor’s studio apartment in Saint Petersburg, Yuuri sitting cross-legged on the couch with Viktor sprawled out on the whole length of it, resting his head in Yuuri’s lap while his ridiculously long legs are dangling over the armrest. He’s seemingly engrossed in a book, but he hasn’t managed to comprehend a single word of it for the past fifteen minutes or so, because… Well, Yuuri, zoned out as he looks, won’t stop playing with his fiancé’s hair for a single second. Slender, delicate fingers comb through carefully kept silver locks, making Viktor shiver whenever the feather-light touch reaches his scalp. He closes his eyes, getting lost in this quiet moment of intimacy, relaxing completely and giving himself over to the feeling of pure bliss, until he feels Yuuri shift, taking in a deep breath, but never stopping his wandering hands. And then…

“Viktor, why did you cut your hair?” Viktor closes his eyes.

***  
He can see himself, with all of his nineteen years weighing down on him more than they should, staring at himself in the mirror of his bathroom, grabbing the sink with slightly shaking hands. He doesn’t even know why he’s upset, to be honest. He can’t give his suddenly rising feelings any sort of direction, and that makes it all the worse. He just… He needs to do _something_ before he explodes. 

This isn’t like him. This isn’t like him at all. He’s Viktor Nikiforov, Russia’s number one senior skater, known for his discipline and outstanding ability to keep his cool under pressure. But he isn’t even under any pressure right now. He’s alone in his own apartment that he managed to earn by winning multiple titles other skaters only dreamed of. At the age of nineteen, with little to no support from his actual family (that consisted of a fairly absent father and a long dead mother, maybe some distant relatives that never reached out to him, who knows), that was pretty incredible. He skated well today. _So what was it?_

The frustration is suffocating. He felt like he could hardly breathe with every single bone in his body aching for some kind of release, even before he stepped on the ice earlier today. He thought, maybe if he gave his all and made his performance unforgettable… 

 

The crowd roared. They loved him. _But it wasn’t enough._

They cheered for him because he managed to reach their standards once again, his short program was solid, every move choreographed to emphasize his strengths, calculated and mastered to perfection, as always. He lived up to what the skating world expected of him. But he didn’t go _beyond_. 

_Without inspiration, you’re as good as dead._

He was angry. So angry. He was in first place, but that was _expected_. He left the kiss and cry, without even pausing to answer the questions the press flocking him on his way out threw at him, while countless cameras went off. People will speculate over the look on those photos tomorrow, he knew that already. Yakov will undoubtedly chew him out for it once they reach the relative privacy of the changing rooms. He didn’t care.

***

He grips the sink a little tighter, staring down his reflection; _those ocean blue eyes, that lovely face of an angel, such soft features for a boy his age, that delicate body destined to perform true art. Slender, but muscular arms,_ currently shaking from the turmoil raging through his mind. _Those beautiful, silver locks pulled back into a neat ponytail…_

He grabs the rubber band, yanking it all the way out, not minding the painful tangles getting in the way and the strands of hair ending up in the sink and all over the floor. Viktor shakes his head a bit, letting all of it fall on his shoulders and his back, all the way down to his waist. He combs through it with impatient fingers, his scalp tingling slightly after having it up so tight all day, he pulls at it, curling his hands into fists until the skin around his knuckles goes white. 

He’s worn it like this as long as he can remember. Adults used to try to shame him for it, telling him that he looked like a girl, that it wasn’t suitable for a skater, that he was too old to look like this. Viktor took pride in all those things, he made people design his costumes to be ambiguous about gender, he let it lose whenever he could – even in practice, until Yakov put down his feet and forbade him to step into the rink until he tied it up in a bun - , he doesn’t even remember the last time he got a haircut. It was part of his image, his identity, something so natural he never even thought about it.

Viktor’s expression hardens before reaching for the pair of dusty scissors lying on the top shelf of the cabinet above him.

He takes one deep breath before squeezing his eyes shut.

The sounds of the sharp blades clicking together make him shiver. He looks in the mirror once again, momentarily taken aback by the sight. There are uneven strands of silver clinging to his face, falling into his eyes, partially obscuring his vision. It tickles and stings at the same time, making him shake his head again and blink a few times. There’s no going back now. He sighs and gets back to work. 

His anger rises again somewhere during halfway for no apparent reason, making him yank at the remaining locks harder, slicing through them almost aggressively.

 

There’s hair _everywhere_ , and he’d rather not think about how long it’ll take him to clean it all up. 

 

One snip here and there, and he’s finally done. Viktor examines his work from the front and the sides, even holding up a small mirror to check the back of his head. He deems it acceptable and puts the scissors back on the shelf. He splashes cold water on his face, trying to get rid of any strays and the stinging redness of his eyes. He’s not about to cry. Not because of this. Not because of his _hair_. 

He spends a few more minutes getting used to the new look. He puts on his winner smile. His eyes remain cold.

 

Yakov is speechless. He’s actually, honest to god speechless. Viktor doesn’t think that ever happened before. At least he has no memory of it after skating under him for thirteen years. Of course it doesn’t last forever, and once his old coach recovers, Viktor’s sure the roaring of his furious voice reaches as far as Moscow.

Viktor is childish, he’s irresponsible, and so, so stupid. What was he thinking, chopping all of his hair off like that a day before the free skate?! He really didn’t think this one through did he (of course he didn’t, when does he ever), he could seriously mess up his image (but did he?). He gets sent to a proper barber shop to fix that mess, which, well. He saw that one coming. 

 

He steps out of the changing room and there are cameras all over him. He ignores all of it once again, concentrating on nothing but his upcoming performance. He hears the audience gasp as he appears on the big screens, and when he steps out on the ice, Viktor smiles.

***  
Yuuri is silent for a minute, his hands stilling, fingers still caught up in the soft texture.

“Did you ever regret that?” he finally asks, moving again, tracing lazy circles onto the top of Viktor’s head.

Viktor sighs. 

“For a while, I guess,” he pauses. “It took some time to get used to it. It wasn’t even the look, I mean I definitely looked hot!” He hears Yuuri scoff, and he can’t help but grin up at him. “It was just… unusual, not having to worry about it.” _And having nothing to hide behind_ , he finishes the thought. Yuuri nods, absentmindedly curling a silver lock around his finger, sending a shiver down Viktor’s spine once again. This is just… so nice. He never had anyone play with his hair before, but he finds it really pleasant. Neither of them speaks for a while, and the silence is comfortable, familiar. 

“Would you grow it out again?” 

He doesn’t reply immediately, a bittersweet smile spreading over his lips. He thought about this before, of course, mostly during the months after he made that decision in his bathroom at 2 AM. But he isn’t the kind of person who keeps looking back. He tells Yuuri so.

Yuuri says he figured. But his soft, understanding smile turns into a mischievous grin as he sighs theatrically, pulling at the curl still wrapped around his finger.

“That’s such a shame, Viktor.” Another playful tug followed by soft fingers slowly massaging his scalp. _Fuck_. “Really.” Yuuri definitely knows what he’s doing. And Viktor is _melting_.

“Just imagine the kind of fun we could have with _that_.”

**Author's Note:**

> I tried. Sorry about the awkward formatting, I still haven't figured it out.


End file.
